Mary Sue Challenge

Standard Bearer, The

9. A Very Bad Horse

She was
awoken the next morning by a gentle voice at the entrance to her tent, and
groggily opened the flap to see a page holding a steaming basin.

“Luinil instructed
me to bring this to you.” He carried it in gingerly.

Gildinwen
touched a finger to the warmth – it was heavenly. “Please thank him.”

“Generally
we’re quite short of water,” he grinned, “so don’t be expecting this every
day.”

She smiled
back, “I won’t, and thank you.”

“You’re
welcome, my lady,” he called over his shoulder as he ducked out.

Looking
around the tent she found some soap and towels, as well as a clean set of
clothes. After a thorough wash, and dressing in the fresh clothing, she felt completely
renewed. There was not enough water to wash her hair, so she settled for
combing and braiding it. Her new clothes were in the livery of Gil-galad’s
house, such as she had seen many Elves wearing the day before. The
neatly-fitting trousers were somewhat long, but the thigh length tunic and
sleeveless mantle fitted well.

Stepping
outside the tent she made her way uncertainly up to the concourse where she had
been the previous evening. Gil-galad and his council were already poring over
their papers. At the outskirts she hesitated, then with a deep breath walked
forward.

“Good
morning my lords,” she bowed.

“Ah! The
Lady Gildinwen,” replied the Elf-Lord. He held up a paper, “Do you have the
tongue of the Dunlending?”

“Yes, my
lord, both speech and writing.”

“Excellent!”
He motioned her over and gave her the letter, “Translate that for me, and make
two copies.”

“Yes, my
lord.” It looked like all those hours spent poring over her father’s old books
were going to come in useful.

She retired
to the far end of the table, gathering the materials she would need. A page
placed a plate of bread and fruit beside her, along with a cup of spring water.

The day
passed thus, Gildinwen quietly copying and translating many letters and reports,
while the tide of Men and Elves ebbed and flowed around Lord Gil-galad. When it
came to the late afternoon, and she had finished the last one, she dared to ask
if she might be excused for an hour or two.

“I had two
friends with me yesterday who were gravely injured, I promised that I would
call to see them.”

Gil-galad
nodded and waved her away, “Luinil will fetch you, if I have need.”

The hospital
tents for the Men were set up between the two camps. They were spacious, with
the sides rolled up to admit light and air, but many cots crowded the floor. In
every one lay a human, each with his own injury, his own pain.

As she
walked among them searching for her friends, Gildinwen heard many call to her.

“The Lady of
Amarnon.”

Awkwardly
she touched the hands of those that reached out to her, smiling to give them
what comfort she could.

“Gil!” Tom’s
voice reached her from the next row, and she stepped to his side with relief.
He looked suddenly embarrassed, “I mean, my Lady.”

She smiled
broadly, “Tom! You’re looking well.” And he was. “So, have you changed your
mind about the Elves?”

“The Elf
that has been caring for him says he’ll make it, but it will take a little
time.”

“And what
have the healers been saying about your injuries?”

He grinned,
“I’m made of strong stuff, the sword cut is closing already.” The grin faded a
little, “the leg will be longer though, it is broken in two places.”

“You’re
lucky there are Elves here, a human surgeon would have taken it off.”

He looked
solemn, “I know, and I’ll never be mislead by others’ stories again, not
without seeing for myself and making up my own mind.”

“Good lad.”

A
disturbance outside the tent drew their attention.

A stout
fellow lying on a stretcher, the front of his tunic stained with blood, was
yelling. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!”

An Elven
healer holding a jar of ointment was trying to attend to him. “Your wound needs
to be seen to.”

“I’ll have
no stinking Elvish potions.”

“I am trying
to help you!” the healer was a young Elf, her beauty dark and ethereal.

The soldier
flailed his arms blindly, fear and pain clouding his vision, knocking the jar
to the ground. “Leave me alone!” he cried.

“Excuse me a
minute, Tom.” Gildinwen hurried over to the healer, whose face was taut with
exasperation.

“Pardon me,”
she asked diffidently, “Maybe I can help.”

The healer’s
face was sceptical but she held out a palm towards the hysterical patient,
“Please.”

Gildinwen
knelt at his side and took hold of his shoulders. “Soldier!” she shook him.
“Look at me!”

He quietened
a little.

“Do you know
who I am?” her voice was commanding.

He made an effort
to focus on her, then nodded, “The Lady Amarnon.”

“Good,” she
spoke more softly, “Now do you trust me?”

“Yes, my
lady.”

She picked
up the jar of ointment and examined it, putting a little to the tip of her
tongue, then she smiled. “This is an unguent of meadow-wort, and flaxfoot.”

“Oh.” The
soldier looked sheepish, “My old mam uses that.”

“There’s
nothing so strange about Elven medicine, they just use different names to us.”
She smiled comfortingly. “Now, may the healers attend you? I assure you there
is nothing to fear.”

He nodded,
grappling for her hand as she stood up. “Bless you, my lady.”

The Elven
healer motioned to one of her helpers to treat the man then turned to Gildinwen
with a friendly smile, “I’m Galeria. If you have time we could use you here, we
get many such incidents.”

“I am at
Lord Gil-galad’s command, but I will be happy to help you however I may.”

And so for
the rest of the afternoon, and on into the early evening, Gildinwen helped the
Elven healers. Many were the injuries from the previous day’s battle – flesh
torn by sword and lance, heads and bones crushed by axe and club, bodies
pierced by blade and arrow. Gildinwen cleaned, and bandaged, wrapped and
comforted. Every man had his wound, his story - a friend lost, an enemy cut down.
To each she tried to give what she could, kind words and soothing hands, and by
the end of the day she was exhausted.

Dusk was
falling when the Elf Galeria came to her. “Come now, let us go and eat.
Tomorrow there will be more needing our care.”

They walked
together back into the Elven camp, a little way behind the rest of the healers.
Galeria, proving to be a merry soul, chatted in a friendly manner.

“I have two
brothers here. Gildor there, “ she indicated a straight-backed Elf with a fall
of dusky hair who walked a few steps in front of them, “He is with Lord
Gil-galad’s household, and Galdor, who is apprenticed to Cìrdan, the
shipwright. My grave cousin Elrond, you met yesterday.”

As they
approached the terrace she pointed out another. “That’s Cìrdan with the white
hair, he’s ever so tall, even for an Elf, and always very serious. And that
gorgeous creature,” she sighed as she indicated a beautiful Elf, his brow clear
and bright, his hair spun from gold, “is Glorfindel.”

As they made
their way up the gentle slope towards the terrace, the sound of horses came
from behind them. Looking round, Gildinwen felt her breath catch when she saw
that it was Lord Elrond astride his grey, cantering easily towards them. Then
she noticed his companion, a riderless horse. A chestnut horse. Her heart leapt
for joy.

“Loreglin!”
Turning, she ran heedlessly down the hill, pell mell, her arms wide, a look of
pure happiness stretching across her face.

Laughter in
his eyes, Elrond eased the horses to a stop, just as she reached them. She
flung her arms around Loreglin’s neck and hugged him tightly.

“Oh
Loreglin!” she scolded, smiling through her tears, “You bad, bad horse! Where
have you been?” He looked at her sheepishly and rubbed his head against her
chest. She squeezed him again, and patted and kissed him all over his dear,
wonderful face.

Lord Elrond
dismounted and she turned to him. “Thank you!” She wiped her face. Did she have
to start crying every time she saw him? “Thank you so very much.” Shyly she
reached out a hand and touched him lightly on the arm, then turned to Loreglin
again, hiding her face against his neck, as she led him away.

She did not
see the Elf-Lord’s keen eyes following her, a smile flickering on his lips, nor
did she see Galeria’s thoughtful look.

The next
morning, the ranks were once more drawn up for battle, the enemy had been set
back, but they were a long way from being defeated. Little did any of the
bright host realise, as they waited battle-ready for the dawn, that they would
be many months on that filthy, blood-soaked field, before they pushed the dark
lord Sauron back to his festering stronghold of Barad-dûr.

Gildinwen
was again mounted on Loreglin, placed behind the mighty Lord Gil-galad, beside
the standard bearers of his own house. Elven armour had been made for her, but
she had kept Deanor’s sword. From the corner of her left eye, she could see
Lord Elrond, once more arrayed in his battle dress, the green-gold plates
fitting close to his lithe body, his long limbs loosely astride his mount, hair
and cloak snatching at the wind. She smiled to herself, ‘Keep your mind on the
job, Gil. There’ll be time enough for daydreaming later.’

The sun
flashed over the mountains, the silver trumpets spoke their warcry, and with a
roar the Alliance, Men and Elves, charged the field of Dagorlad, against the
Enemy, against his foul creatures and against the very Dark itself.

Author’s
Blurb: I feel this is quite
a weak chapter, it’s a sort of bridge between different parts of the story, and
I didn’t feel it turned out too well. I’d appreciate your views on this. Just
for interest, originally Loreglin was going to die in the battle, but then I
thought it was too sad, and the real Loreglin started looking at me accusingly
every day, so I just had him run off – which had the bonus of allowing another
scene between E & G.

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.